


either you go forward or you die

by whitchry9



Series: Autistic Matt Murdock [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Autism, Autistic Matt, Blind Character, Character Study, Disability, Disabled Character, Gen, autistic matt murdock, internalized ableism, so much ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8493964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: This is what autism looks like, to Matt Murdock.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for lots of internalized ableism, use of ableist slurs, etc.
> 
>  
> 
> Title is a quote from the book Wolf in White Van, which I have not read. I was directed towards this quote by a post Auden made about loud hands, because apparently I love em too much. 
> 
> Again, your autistic experiences may vary.

This is what autism looks like, to Matt Murdock.

 

It looks like _quiet_ _hands._ It looks like hands on his, whether they know or not, the therapists in third grade, the Sisters at the orphanage. It looks like shame in his chest, burning red. It looks like years of unlearning behaviours that he thought were helping, no matter how much they hurt. It looks like relearning that his body is his and that there is no wrong way to have a body.

 

It looks like stimming with one hand while the other runs over braille text, or stimming while reading braille text, or crying because the braille hurts his fingers because they're too sensitive now, just like everything else. It looks like scratching skin and clothes that burn. It looks like rosary beads that are smooth in his hand and he worries over them because it's better than more noticeable stims. It looks like noises that physically hurt him and wrists that bend and contort instead of flap because _quiet hands._

 

It looks like _oh_ _Matthew_ and sighs and pats on the head that make him wince. It looks like classrooms where they don't let him use scissors and teachers that insist he use his words. It looks like being ignored unless he's doing something wrong, the insistence that anything he does is despite of who he is, that anything he can't do is because of who he is.

 

It looks like whispers he shouldn't be able to hear, about the way he moves his hands or keeps them tucked in close to his body, because no matter what he does with them it doesn't seem to be the right thing. It looks like whispers he shouldn't be able to hear about the poor retarded blind boy without a father. It looks like whispers and whispers and whispers.

 

It looks like quotes instead of his own words, for days when his get stuck and he's still told _use your words_ and he can't find any that belong to him. It looks like _my thoughts be bloody or nothing worth_ and _the world is quiet here_ and _there are only two stories: either you go forward or you die_ and _the thing to decide is what kind of monster to be_ and _why does tragedy exist? because you are full of rage_ and and and. _  
_

 

It looks like assimilation, like forgetting parts of himself in order to be seen and heard. It looks like a Columbia acceptance letter with a signature that he can trace and feel. It looks like Thurgood Marshall quotes that he has learned and remembered and taken to heart. It looks like boxing gloves and a robe that he can trace the letters on. It looks like new beginnings and endings and everything in between.

 

It looks like independence, like moving out of the orphanage and into a dorm and being fiercely independent. It looks like making a friend that he swears he will never tell either truth to, because he knows where that leads, and it's nowhere good.

 

It looks like a hop skip jump, with his cane in one hand and the other on Foggy's arm, only comfortable because he's drunk and Foggy's drunk and he can't hear any other heartbeats in a one block radius. It looks like butchered Spanish and shared memories and the hope that there will be a future together. It looks like plastic dinosaurs he's been told are ridiculous colours and boxes full of bagels because they're damn well going to get as many as they can before heading out on their own.

 

It looks like graduation and family that isn't his but might as well be. It looks like a diploma with his name in typeface and in braille. It looks like a napkin with a sign he can't see but can feel where the pen pressed into the paper. It looks like a promise of a future together.

 

It looks like broken bones and bruised fists. It looks like justice and penance and cut lips that taste like righteousness. It looks like condemnation and judgment and a deep dark fear that he is doing the wrong thing. It looks like lattes and reassurance and a man who can provide both but Matt still isn't sure if he's being lied to or not.

 

It looks like gripping his cane because he doesn't know what else to do with his hands. It looks like an urge to hit things until the pain is solely physical because he doesn't know how to deal with it otherwise. It looks like burning, in more ways than one. It looks like blinding anger and hitting a wall and water in his nose and everywhere and he can only imagine how the blood is mixing with it. It looks like bone deep exhaustion and blood loss and barely making it home.

 

It looks like his best friend, with nervousnervousnervous in his voice while he's confused and sticking to his own couch with blood and a whisper of “You know, for months I thought you were autistic. Imagine my surprise when I found out that you're just a lying asshole.” It looks like shock and shame because he never told Foggy, thought he was passing well enough that Foggy would never know. It looks like certainty that this is the end, this is where Foggy leaves him, because finding out one secret in a night would have been more than enough, but two, surely two is too many.

  
It looks like an admission, not only to Foggy, but himself too, that maybe he wasn't as good at pretending to be normal as he'd thought he was. It looks like “I am autistic” and waiting for the door to slam.

It looks like being asked why he didn't tell the truth, and pushing down the thought of being told _quiet_ _hands_ or asked if he was retarded or something or told _you look too normal to be autistic_. It looks like shame and disappointment and self loathing. It looks like admitting “I couldn't bear the idea of losing you, even if it meant lying to you. And I guess I have.”

It looks like losing the one friend he thought he had and waiting for him to walk out and waiting and waiting because he doesn't, because Foggy says they're still friends and Matt asks if he's sure.

It looks like “Of course we are.”

 

It looks like hope and loud hands and friendship. It looks like acceptance. It looks like survival.

 


End file.
